top of page


Headless Harbinger of Glen Cainnir 

by Christina Ciufo



Glen Cainnir’s evergreen moors


are draped by the banshee’s white veil


and clansman Ewen’s blood,

like River Irvine,

flowing from his decapitated head,


while it rolled down,


down, and


down the moors - 


staining the battlefield


of his irreligious damnation.



Full canary moon peers through


the night’s grey veil.



Fog rolls, covering the trees


and castle ruins.



Irish Wolfhounds howl in harmony


their foreboding lamentation.



Crows serenade a melancholy.



Thunder pounds in fours.



Clip, clop.


Clip, clop.


Clip, clop.



He gallops through the moors,


leaves rising from the ground,


making fairies tremble


with trepidation of his arrival.



Clip, clop.


Clip, clop.


Clip, clop.




Full of swiftness, closer and closer,


the headless harbinger


and his headless black stallion


enter and dissipates into the howl woods.



Silence broken by cackling,


echoing across the moors


of Ewen’s savagery for bloodshed


on the battlefield centuries ago. 

Dark Path.jpg
bottom of page